Last Call

By Frank F. Weber

Audrey Evans, 19, disappears in the dead of an arctic winter night after leaving a convenience store in Brainerd, Minnesota. Investigator Jon Frederick is called in and is not about to let Audrey end up one of the 40,000 missing women in the U.S. In Jon's personal life, a deceptive past lover jars his intense relationship with Serena and sets in motion a pending tragedy. The explosive situation is amped up further after Jon's name is used to solicit a woman, and one last call detonates it all. Referencing actual Minnesota crime cases, this spine-tingling thriller tests an investigator's tender compassion and the gritty resilience of a soft-spoken young woman. Last Call examines what we will do to protect the ones we love. This is the third book in the Jon Frederick series.

Last Call is the 2020 MIPA Book Award winner for Best Romance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781636491295

Book preview

BEGINNING

Prologue

JOHN FREDERICK

9:15 P.M., SATURDAY, JANUARY 19, 2018

NORTHWESTERN MEMORIAL HOSPITAL,

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

If the only information I had about me was the situation I was in, I would hate me. I stood at the eighth-floor window of obstetrics, looking out at the night lights of Chicago. It was a beautiful city, and the Aqua skyscraper, with its warm and coral reef texture, looked like it belonged in a futuristic cartoon. My mess would be particularly unpleasant when it became public information, because I lived in a small Minnesota town—Pierz. My dad has always said, The good news is, everybody knows everybody. The bad news is, everybody knows everybody. God help me! I looked up at the stars and said a silent prayer.

Jada Anderson’s thick, raven hair fell across her face as she hunched into another contraction. I quickly rushed to her side. Her cocoa skin glistened with sweat. Eyes that reflected the translucence and sweetness of maple syrup, pleaded with me for relief. I attempted to get her through the pain by reminding her to focus on her breathing.

Jada was an alluring, 31-year-old newscaster for WGN in Chicago. She could down anyone in a political argument, but Jada delivered her point so graciously, people seldom walked away feeling insulted. She was about to give birth to my son. Our racial differences had never been much of an issue for us, or for our parents. The fact that we were no longer in a relationship would be, but that wasn’t my biggest trouble.

I’d have liked to believe I wasn’t a terrible person, but even killers are heroes in their own stories.

Jada and I had dated for four years, before we ended our relationship in 2015. We had a one-night tryst a little over seven months ago, which led to this moment. At the time, we were both single, working the I-94 murders in Minnesota—me as a Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, or BCA, investigator—Jada as a reporter. My decision to spend that night with Jada was about to set into motion a series of events that would ultimately cost a young woman and a man their lives.

Jada and I both came out of poverty. She grew up on the hard streets of Chicago, while I was raised on a small farm that went into foreclosure, near Pierz. Jada and I were equally intense and we invigorated each other. She was a stylish and eloquent reporter for the most watched news station in Minnesota, so we were invited to every major event. To be honest, I would have preferred to relax around a campfire with a couple of friends. The absence of children gnawed at me, until I couldn’t deny my desire for a family. Jada, on the other hand, already had the life she wanted.

Any child is a gift, but this particular blessing was a surprise party. Jada called me this morning in a frenzy, Jon, you’ve got to get to Chicago—immediately! I’m seven and a half months pregnant with your son, and he’s coming today. And if there’s any doubt, you are the only possible father.

I held my phone away from my ear, staring at it in shock. She continued, breathlessly, Mom was attending the birthing classes with me, but she’s visiting her sister in South Carolina. She can’t get a flight out until tomorrow. Trent’s working in New York, and I can’t ask him to get back for this. You’re all I have and I’m scared. Something’s wrong...

I caught the first flight to Chicago, even though I knew this would throw my life into chaos. If this birth was indeed the disaster Jada suggested, my child could be left spending the night in a hospital without the comfort of family. No child should be abandoned. I couldn’t live with that.

Fortunately, the baby had reached the age of viability which increased his odds of surviving to 90%. I have a bit of an obsession with numbers, so I’m keenly aware that twenty-eight weeks is a significant milestone for pregnancy. I hadn’t known, prior to twelve hours ago, that Jada was pregnant, or that the child was mine, or that she was giving birth to my son—today. After Jada and I had wrapped up our work on the I-94 murders, she accepted her dream job in Chicago and I moved to Pierz to be closer to my daughter, Nora. Now you’re starting to get a better idea of the hornet’s nest I’ve created. And there’s more to the scandal—Jada’s baby will not be my first, or last, child. Okay, just shoot me. I know it’s terrible.

Pulling me back out of my head, Jada winced and, attempting to ignore the pain, spoke as casually as she was able, Did you see the story I did on the Latin Kings’ Supreme Regional Inca, Corona Santora?

No. Corona’s his first name?

Jada grimaced and tried to adjust her body into a more comfortable position, Corona means ‘crown.’ I believe his name is Fernando Santora, but everyone knows him as Corona. Chicago is home to the Latin Kings. The Kings and the Vice Lords are constantly battling for control of the streets here. After I interviewed Corona, his last words to me were, she lowered her voice to imitate a man, ‘Bounce, bitch. Can’t be seen with you.’"

I smiled, You do have a bit of a bounce these days.

Surprised, Jada crossed her hands over her breasts, I do, but I can’t help it—they doubled in size during the pregnancy. They’re not identical twins, more like fraternal.

Embarrassed, I explained, I was referring to the baby.

Jada smiled slightly, and sighed, Of course you were. Relenting, she added, Chalk that misunderstanding up to my pregnancy brain. Ugh—I can’t stop talking. It’s been like this for a month! Poor Trent. She shifted again and hissed through another contraction. I held her hand and she squeezed mine until the pain passed.

We were stupid to think we could ever have a shot at it again, she said softly. We were both so desperately lonely. An impish smile crept across her face. It was a hot summer night. When I unbuttoned that Twins jersey, and you saw the twins were braless, it was on.

Jada was typically discreet, but understanding she was experiencing significant distress, I mused, I never understood the Twins using a bear as a mascot.

The bear is a homonym for ‘bare twins,’ she explained with feigned seriousness. She then laughed, And we got to it with the passion of teens worried their parents might come home early.

Even though I couldn’t be in more trouble than I was at that moment, it felt like a conversation I shouldn’t be having, so I moved it ahead. And when we were both exhausted, you told me, ‘I’m not sharing this couch.’

It’s one thing to share a bed after making love, but on a couch, you’re right on top of each other—can’t do it.

I hear you. I took no issue with it.

Jada teased, Now, I’d just tell you, ‘Bounce Bitch.’

I smiled back, but was a little concerned about Jada’s unfiltered dialogue. She almost seemed manic compared to her typical composed and modest demeanor. The nurse was now standing outside of Jada’s room, so I pulled her aside to express my concerns. She warned that childbirth does that to some women, So be prepared.

When I stepped back into the room, Jada’s tone was serious, Something’s wrong—I can feel it. As the next contraction started, Jada pleaded, Promise you’re not going to take my baby from me— that if I go under, the baby will still be right here when I wake up.

I would never walk away from my child, but I could never be that cruel. I had told Jada years ago that I could never trust someone else to raise my children. At the time, I didn’t envision not living with my child’s mother. I gently held her hand, I promise the baby will be right here. I will stay here and protect this baby while you’re sleeping, so you can sleep in peace. I smoothed her hair off her forehead. It’s going to be okay. You’re exactly where you need to be.

I calmed her and reminisced about long walks we’d taken along Grand Avenue, postulating solutions to the world’s problems, before we could afford to enjoy the spices, coffee and art sold in the shops. We were daring and full of hope, and we voraciously hungerd for that exuberant vitality in the U.S. today, more than ever.

When the next contraction began, Jada swore in pain. I asked her to focus on her breathing and it seemed to help, even though I felt like a powerless fool who had little to say, other than, You’re doing great.

11:30 P.M.

After over twelve hours of exhaustive labor, Jada gave birth to Isaiah Xavier Anderson. He was six pounds, one ounce, and healthy. As Jada held Isaiah, I told him I loved him, and prayed he’d receive the proper guidance on his life’s journey. I wanted to take him with me, but after I watched Jada lovingly reach for him and caress him, I knew that wasn’t going to happen. She divulged her plan to breastfeed Isaiah for a year, which meant my contact with him would have to take place in Chicago.

Jada handed Isaiah to me and her eyes lost focus as she breathed, I don’t feel right.

For the first time, I noticed worry on the face of our nurse. The nurse turned to an aide and said, Get the doctor. She shouldn’t be bleeding like this.

An obstetrician rushed into the room and quickly ordered, Let’s get her to the OR.

The nurse asked her, Should I order a spinal?

The doctor ordered, Just put this poor woman out...

12:15 A.M., JANUARY 20, 2018

I finished feeding Isaiah from a bottle and placed him in his crib. Our dimly-lit hospital room felt empty without Jada; she still hadn’t returned from surgery. A second surgeon had been called in to assist, which meant things weren’t going well.

The nurse returned and, with grave concern, explained Jada suffered from uterine atony, which meant the uterus didn’t contract as it should have after birth. Jada had lost a lot of blood, and the nurse couldn’t, or wouldn’t, give me a prognosis.

When she left, I knelt on the tile floor by Isaiah’s crib and prayed, God, please let Jada live. I felt so badly for her. She knew something was dreadfully wrong. Jada made the world’s problems seem solvable, and we needed her. Isaiah needed her.

3:20 A.M.

The nurse walked into the room, and I quickly stirred in my chair. She put her hand on my shoulder, I’m not going to lie to you. I was worried we could lose her, but Jada’s going to be okay. She’s slowly coming to. You make certain to thank Dr. Williams— she is absolutely the best. Soon after, Jada was wheeled back into the room. I thanked God and when she appeared, I thanked Dr. Williams too.

I wanted to tell Jada I admired her will to survive, but she was still out, so instead, I bent down and kissed her forehead.

At that moment, a large, mountain of a man stepped through the door. The kiss obviously bothered him, and I felt guilty over it, being I was married. It wasn’t meant as a passionate kiss; it was a thank God you’re alive kiss. The dark giant reached his hand to shake mine and, with the baritone rumble of a semi-truck, said, Trent Matthews.

Until this moment, I hadn’t considered that Jada’s Trent was the six-foot, eight-inch power forward for the Chicago Bulls. He was one of the best rebounders in the NBA, but after six years, the Bulls still didn’t start him. This meant he suffered with the NBA poverty rate of six million dollars a year.

I shook his hand, Jon Frederick.

Trent immediately tensed. His face tightened, You here for the baby?

I’m here to provide Jada support. We almost lost her.

Well, I’m here, now, he said dismissively, and wedged his big frame between Jada and me.

I stood silent and awkward, not knowing exactly who Trent was to Jada. I wasn’t leaving, but it wasn’t like I could throw him out. I was in good shape, but not close to the condition of an NBA player.

Jada seemed to sense his presence. Her eyes fluttered open and she smiled groggily at him, Trent. You’re here. She feebly stretched her hand out toward him.

He leaned closer to kiss her, I’m sorry for not being here for you. It got ugly in New York, tonight. The Knicks have the worst home record in the NBA, but they managed to beat us. Trent gingerly sat on Jada’s bed and held her hand between both of his. Her lean, long fingers were lost in hands large enough to palm a basketball. You okay?

Jada turned to me and, in a weary tone, offered me an out. You can go now, Jon. Thank you.

I decided it was best to appease Jada, tonight. After this much trauma, she deserved to have someone just follow her wishes.

It was January in Chicago, so my walk to the Omni Chicago Hotel occurred in a cool 27 degrees. I pulled my collar up and my breath steamed into the winter air. I was staying only one block from Northwestern Memorial Hospital. Despite my cool and casual stroll, my insides were churning with anxiety—what-nows and what-ifs were darting around in my head like a fresh batch of minnows dumped in a bucket. Isaiah was early, but healthy, and that had to be good karma. Jada was going to be okay. This was the best outcome of today’s events, and I had to appreciate each blessing, moment by moment.

I wondered what Isaiah was going to be like. I already loved the little guy. But now what? I’d never cheated on my wife. I married the kindest and most beautiful person I’d ever met in my life, Serena Bell, last fall. Serena was also due with my child, any day. That meant I needed to get my gluteus maximus on an airplane and back home tomorrow. Serena is also the mother of my three-year-old daughter, Nora.

I’m not a terrible person—perhaps bent, but not crooked. Let me explain. Serena and I were living together, raising Nora, until one year ago. I was investigating violent crimes for the BCA, while Serena was working through a past trauma. I wanted to marry; she wanted to work through her trauma, first. I conceded. Then Serena decided she couldn’t work through her trauma while living with me, so she took Nora and moved out. Serena was struggling with a number of physical issues, including hypothyroidism and petit mal seizures. One of the medications she was placed on was Dilantin, which countered the effect of her birth control pill, rendering it worthless. It was a side effect her physician had failed to warn her about. Even though we were separated, we still occasionally got together and unbeknownst to both of us, Serena got pregnant. She had broken up with me, though, and Jada and I began spending time together.

But Jada wanted to return to Chicago, and I wanted to spend more time with my daughter in Pierz, so we went our separate ways, once again. Serena and I reunited and married—pretty quickly, yes, but we knew it was right in our hearts. And all was going well, until Jada called this morning.

My time with Isaiah, for at least the first year, would be time lost with Serena, Nora, and our baby. Plus, there would be added expenses with trips to Chicago and child support. Jada was afraid I was going to steal Isaiah from her, which was a terrible way to start motherhood. I’d created a hailstorm, and there would be a world of hurt before it ended. I gazed up at the starry night sky, and pleaded, Kyrie eleison - Lord have mercy. I swear, I can’t see my way through this."

A black sedan with tinted windows slowly cruised next to me on the street. There had been some traffic, but this car was moving at a stalking pace. The passenger window slid down, revealing a young man with long dreadlocks, giving me a menacing glare. I knew it seemed paranoid, but my first thought was concern that Trent had called someone to intimidate me.

The man belligerently sneered, Fucker.

I should have been afraid, but my exhaustion led to postulating the absurdity of finding the term offensive. Being I was just leaving the birth of my child, I guess the answer would be, True. Not wanting a fight, I looked straight ahead and continued walking.

The car continued to crawl along, matching my pace, and the passenger cracked, Fucking prick.

I had to give him that one. I could be a prick, sometimes. And if I was a prick, it was the kind of prick I’d like to be. My brain goes to weird places when I’m tired. I was also thinking, a free psychological assessment—internet quality. There are times anyone could get hurt for being the wrong race in the wrong place; I could no longer ignore the possibility that I was in trouble. Behind me, The Corner Bakery and the Cubs Team Store were closed, but I was 100 feet from my hotel’s glistening gold entry. Was this a serious threat, or was someone just pulling my chain? I was an investigator in Minnesota, but had no jurisdiction, here. I couldn’t afford to get into an altercation and end up sitting in the Cook County jail while Serena went into labor in Minnesota. I needed to bail before I’d need bail. I ran to the lobby door and the car cruised on.

When I returned to my hotel room, I called Serena, as promised. We spoke briefly about the birth.

Tormented, Serena asked, What would you think of me if I gave birth, with another man present, after we were married?

Her pain was all on me. I’m sorry, was the best I could do.

Serena hesitated, but then softly said, Jon, I get it. It’s not Isaiah’s fault we’re in this mess, but we need you here.

I was beyond grateful for Serena’s willingness to stay with me, when she would be questioned over and over again how we managed to have one white child and one black child, weeks apart in age. I simply told her, I love you.

Serena added sardonically, Maybe we should take out an ad in the Morrison County Record that reads, ‘Jon was not unfaithful. We had separated and one child was born two months early.’

I’m sorry to put you through this. If it was just me, I’d say ‘Hell with it, think whatever you want.’ But I feel badly for you.

Serena painfully said, I can’t pick you up at the airport tomorrow.

The two-hour trip from Pierz to the Minneapolis/St. Paul International Airport, in the winter, was a lot to ask from a woman who was eight months pregnant—especially to pick up a man who’d just had a baby with someone else. I reassured her, No worries. I’ll figure something out.

I could sense her sadness, What’s wrong?

I’m going to have to go back to work again. Serena wanted to stay home with our baby for the first year, and I supported this. We had budgeted for it. That was all blown with another child. She sighed, I’m trying not to be angry, Jon. I know I was the one who suggested we see other people eight months ago. I was messed up at the time. If you just wouldn’t have slept with her right away...

I pointed out, It wasn’t like we’d just met. Jada and I had history.

Her despair was palpable. The fact that you dated makes it worse. You have an emotional connection. I’m sorry. It’s just that having a baby is such an intimate event, and you shared it with someone else—during our marriage! Her voice thickened as she said, My dad told me today, ‘I respect Jon for not working with Jada once the two of you started dating.’ Now I have to tell him Jada had your child.

I’m sorry. What do you want me to do? I felt like the worst person I knew—and I knew some terrible people. Please hang in there. Being with you makes me the luckiest man on Earth.

Serena sadly laughed. Six months ago, I was frantic. I didn’t have any hope, and you held me and said, ‘It’s going to be okay.’ It didn’t happen overnight, but it became luscious—and I don’t want to lose that. Since I proposed and we married, it’s been so good.

I want you to remember that neither of us has done anything wrong since then. My sins have followed me home. I’m not going to deny them, or pretend they don’t have ramifications. I know it’s a lot to ask for you to tough out this storm with me, but I love you and Nora, and our baby, so much, I beg you to please try. I’ll do anything to keep you.

I’m not running. I just feel like I’m sitting on a lawn chair on the edge of an endless ocean, with a raging, thirty-foot tsunami over my head that’s about to come down.

But it’s not a tsunami. It’s a baby. And Nora’s healthy. Our baby’s healthy. You’re healthy. I’m healthy. Gossip and rumors are painful, but they can’t wash you away. They can only make you walk away. And that’s your choice. I paused, wanting to avoid any suggestion of blaming her for my predicament. I’m sorry, and I’m not trying to minimize the damage I’ve done. It’s tearing me apart, but I’m trying to keep my home strong and not let my past sins lead to more bad choices.

Serena sincerely told me, I tell myself that tenderness and mercy are the best cures for confusion. I’ve also learned, instead of asking God for favors, to talk with heartfelt honesty, and some-how it always works out. I still love you. Just come home. Before saying goodnight, she advised, Make sure you get a DNA sample. I know you trust Jada, but parenting is every day, for the rest of your life...

After the call, I looked up Trent Matthews. It was ridiculous for me to have concerns about Trent. He was raised in a middle class family in Minnetonka. He went to Hopkins High School—a perennial basketball powerhouse, and a yuppie school that even had a coffee shop. He knew less about thug life than I did.

I would later find out my next case was set in motion, tonight, in Brainerd, Minnesota. My stress paled in comparison to what one Audrey Evans was experiencing. If you put everyone’s problems in a pile, most of the time you’d be damn happy to walk away with just your own.

8:30 A.M.

OMNI CHICAGO HOTEL, CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

I called Sean Reynolds before visiting Isaiah at the hospital. Sean was a friend and coworker at the BCA. He was also close to Jada before she moved to Chicago. I shared my dilemma in confidence, and he made the same suggestion as Serena, Get a DNA sample. He added, Give it to me with a sample of your DNA and I’ll run them for you. The lab crew owes me one.

9:55 A.M.

NORTHWESTERN MEMORIAL HOSPITAL,

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

I went to the hospital to spend time with Isaiah before my flight home. I sat next to Jada, cradling my son, and memorizing every little line of his face. There was some redness in Jada’s eyes from breaking blood vessels during labor, but she looked good, considering all she’d been through. The top of a baby’s head always smelled so gratifying. This little guy was damn cute—so small. I closed my eyes and swore I would find a way to create the best life I could for him. Knowing I was about to disappoint Jada, I told her, I’m going to take a DNA swab. I took the kit out of my pocket and quickly secured a cheek swab and sealed it.

Jada silently seethed. Clearly offended, she reached for Isaiah when I finished. She glared at me, Ass.

I’m sorry. I need to get back to Minnesota—Serena’s due any day.

Just go. I can take care of my Isaiah.

I bent down and looked directly into Jada’s big brown eyes, Isaiah’s mine, too.

Trent will be good with Isaiah. If he seems cold, it’s only because I ranted and raved to him that you’d try to take my baby from me. Just go home and take care of your babies.

Trent would be taking Jada home tomorrow. This was what she wanted, and it was fine with me. When we spoke this morning, Serena told me that Nora asked if she was leaving me again, because she saw Serena crying. I needed to get home and assure everyone that I would find a way to make this work. I missed Serena and Nora, and I didn’t want to spend another night with-out them.

5:30 P.M.

MINNEAPOLIS/ST. PAUL INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

Clay Roberts made the trip to pick me up with my brother, Victor. Clay was a clone of Brad Pitt in his more rugged-looking days, before he chopped off his long hair. He had a thick mane of blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, and a pumped physique that could put him on the cover of a romance novel. Clay’s mom left her family for an internet lover when Clay was an adolescent, and the combination of the chip left on his shoulder and his ridiculously good looks made him a relationship wrecking ball.

Victor hopped in the back of the extended cab of Clay’s truck and, after throwing my overnight bag next to him, I settled into the passenger seat. My brother was schizophrenic. He was a kind person and his troubled soul was gentle. Victor had long, unnaturally blonde hair parted in the middle, and a brunette mustache, as a result of hair dye and illogical reasoning.

Deep in thought, Victor commented, Okay, my belt holds up my pants, but my pants have loops that hold the belt. So, who’s the real hero?

It was nice to be back to Victor’s worries. Maybe they both are.

He leaned between the seats and showed me a cell phone photo of his latest painting. The sky in the picture was streaks of blue and yellow, while the ground was white and black. A watered-down azure covered the entire painting.

I told him, This is very creative. It reminds me of that moment of blue we have in a Minnesota winter, right after the sun sets, before it gets dark.

Victor shook his hair off his face dramatically, and expressed, I paint what I feel.

After glancing at it, Clay said, You must not feel well.

Ever the supportive brother, I added, This is nice work, Victor!

Victor put in his ear buds. Unaware